Finding Reality
by chartreuseian
Summary: He helps her hold onto what's real.


**This was inspired by both "Love Calling" and "Damned Fool" by LoveActuallyFan (who is a gem for letting me post this and you should all go read those stories if you haven't already because they are brilliant and fantabulous and amazeballs) as well as the song 'Portions for Foxes' by Rilo Kiley. I own neither of them just as I don't own the show. **

**Thank you to the lovely, talented, epic LoveActuallyFan once more because she is makin' me happy!**

**xx**

* * *

><p>His head was between her thighs, her hand tangled in his hair as she bucked her hips. It always ended like this when she called him, always. Especially after a bad dream. He'd rush to her side, ending up on her door step only a few days later and they'd sit down to talk. They'd talk about mundane things, he'd flirt and offer to take her to bed and while she'd never once said yes, it was always where they ended up.<p>

Sometimes it took her a week to call him, she'd bite her tongue until the dreams got so bad she couldn't take it anymore. It was easier when they lived in the same city, even easier in those brief months when he'd stayed in her London home. Then all she'd have to do is let loose the sobs that threatened to overcome her and he'd be in her arms in less than a minute. Every time. She missed those times, when the comfort she sought was only a stone's throw away. Now, if she waited a week to call him he'd be there a week after that and while the dreams would never totally subside in such a short period of time the potency had usually depleted by then and his comfort, while welcomed wasn't as satisfying as in the early days.

Once or twice she hadn't called him, unwilling to use and abuse that which he'd already given her free reign to do so. Shouldn't he be allowed to go out and explore the world without being tied so disturbingly to her? What if he wanted to meet someone? What if he had met someone and it was her calls that dragged him from whoever this pretty little thing might be? She knew it was silly but half the time it was this young and nubile figment of her imagination that made her call. He was hers and no one else should be allowed to know the pleasures he could bestow. He was hers.

So she'd call him and he'd answer and then he'd be on the next flight from where ever it was he was hiding. Once he'd asked what she'd done in the sixty years they'd been apart and the time before that when he'd been in New York and she in London. Her answer came in one word delivered with the hopes of making him feel a little guilty for leaving her. James. His face had softened when she'd told him that. James. Of course, what she hadn't told him was that their friend's gentle and restrained touch rarely distracted her from the nightmares the way his did. His ego was far too big as it was.

Her calls were short and to the point. Brief hellos and then a tense pause as he waited for her to say the words.

"C'mere."

The he'd hang up and her heart would beat a little too fast.

When he arrived on the doorstep, she never kept it a secret from her team. She just couldn't see the point, not when he enjoyed being indiscreet so very much. If she even tried to hide his visits she was certain he'd go out of his way to flaunt what they got up to. Not that it ever lasted very long. Sometimes he'd come in the morning and leave again in the evening, leaving her breathless and panting and feeling strangely exposed. Like she'd just been cut open to be put on display.

Generally, once he arrived, they'd go through the motions. They'd sit in her office sipping tea as they chattered for an hour or two. The only time they deviated from this was when he was there the very next day, when the feelings were still bubbling away at the surface, her nightmare still feeling much too real. Then she'd drag him to the nearest lockable room and make him screw her against whichever surface took his fancy. But that didn't happen often. Normally they were polite and friendly, flirty too but never overtly so. But talking always led to touching and touching always led to sex. They said that after that there was no mystery left but she knew that was a lie. With him there was always mystery. The mystery of why she called him of all people. The mystery of why he answered. The mystery of why after all the years of comforting each other (because this had most certainly gone both ways for a very long time) she still refused his offers of love and adoration.

Though that last one really wasn't a mystery, just something she didn't care to think about.

They both knew it was unhealthy, she was totally certain that she shouldn't keep doing it but she did. He made her remember what was real, he helped to distinguish the lines between fantasy and reality. He made sure that she could classify her nightmares as nightmares. He was real and hot and sweaty against her. His lips on her collar bone were real. Her hands on his back were real. The feel of him pulsing within her as he roared his release above her was real. She knew it was real. He was real.

Being with him in those frantic moments made her certain that she wasn't the corpse she so often dreamt of. Fearing death when she'd spent a good long while welcoming its release was messed up and a sign of her insanity, she was sure but it was true. Holding him as he pounded into her made her certain that she wasn't dead. And neither was he.

He was bad for her, unhealthy. He allowed her to use him like his, he allowed her to screw his brains out, he allowed her this weakness and she knew it was bad. He was bad. But she didn't care. She was just as bad as him. She was dangerous and mean and more than willing to hurt him if it made her feel better. She didn't think about his feelings when he had her pressed into a dark corner, she didn't make concessions for him when all she wanted to do was rut like animals, she didn't really contemplate letting him live his own life when she picked up the phone.

Her nightmares were scary but nowhere near as frightening as her.

They were messy and mixed up and her international booty calls were ridiculous but nothing was going to stop her. She was broken and messy and mixed up but he helped. He helped so she didn't care about anything else.

He was real and that's all that mattered, she decided with a gasp, her entire body convulsing in pleasure as she whispered his name softly.

"Nikola."

He was real.


End file.
